


Of Masks and Madness

by ErykaOnyx



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Inspired by Nat and the rest of the Tumblr Clowns, One Shot, crack ship, rise of CRANEWRIGHT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24346816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErykaOnyx/pseuds/ErykaOnyx
Summary: Jonathan Crane's incarceration is interrupted by a peculiar figure with a penchant for changing faces.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane & Jane Cartwright
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Of Masks and Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Originally supposed to be a one-shot but left open ended in case I ever want to come back to this.

Arkham Asylum. A sinister place of chaos and madness, its hallways always echoing with the distress and rage of the prisoners kept within. There was a constant cacophony of sounds, howls, cries, screams, all of it the soundtrack of the insane. Jonathan Crane found that he enjoyed the sounds of the Arkham inmates; their shrieks and bellows reminded him that the chaos bound up in Arkham’s walls was there only temporarily. They were never far from spilling forward and breaking out.

Jonathan lazed on his bunk, arms tucked behind his head. In the privacy of his room, he lifted the burlap sack he’d grown used to wearing to expose his mouth and make his breathing a little easier. Oftentimes, he enjoyed hearing the rush of his own breath thick in his ears but the screams of the other inmates were more than suitable replacements. Jonathan was bored. He had become his own fear, the Scarecrow, so a place such as Arkham held no fright for him. Even when the guards, experiencing their own boredom, decided to use the inmates for ‘fun’, fear did not strike in him. He spent his days in relative boredom, the monotony broken on the occasions he could steal chemicals for his private concoctions and when he spent time with Mr. Tetch. His friend and accomplice was imprisoned there along with him but the staff, noting their affinity for one another, took measures to keep them apart, lest they conspire together and plan a breakout. Without the company of his friend, Jonathan found Arkham wholly unimpressive. A breakout was imminent – wasn’t it always? - and he’d await it with his usual patience.

This night was noisier than usual. Somewhere in the asylum, further from his location, there was chaos going on. He merely laid on his bed and enjoyed the distant sound of screams and let his imagination wonder at their source. He was beginning to feel the lull of sleep come on when he heard the jangle of keys outside his door and the metal clank of the lock turning. He sat up, pulling the sack down low over his mouth just as a guard entered his room. 

He was instantly on edge. He couldn't recognize much of the staff on a regular day; he only remembered the names and faces of those members of staff who were particularly cruel, those who used the asylum as a playground and the inmates as toys while no one watched. This man was one of those. He was average to the extreme, 5’8, white, brown-haired, boring-faced. The name on his uniform read R. Bolger. 

"On your feet, Crow," he commanded. Behind his mask, Jonathan scowled at the nickname and remained where he was. 

Bolger sneered and strode across the room. He gripped the front of Jonathan’s shirt and pulled him to his feet. Stronger than he looks. His curiosity outweighed his annoyance and when Bolger pressed him to the wall and pulled out a gun, Jonathan only felt a mild sense of interest. 

He saw the abyss of the barrel pointed right at him and glanced over the gun to meet Bolger’s eyes. The man was staring at him intently, a light shining in his eyes. 

"Do you walk with fear, Jonathan Crane?" 

He had not expected that question and hearing that name put him on edge. "I am fear," he corrected, his voice a low growl. 

The grin grew on Bolger"s face. "Excellent," he hissed. "Do you want to leave this place?" 

"And go where?" 

"Past the bonds of this crumbling madhouse," he said lowly. "Out into the city where insanity reigns unlimited." 

Jonathan blinked. He leaned forward, looking Bolger in the eyes. "You… you're one of mine, aren’t you?" 

The man gave him a sneaky grin. "Something close. So? Want my help, Crane?"

"I suppose you have a plan for getting out of here?" 

"I do. But I'm gonna need that sack you're wearing." 

Jonathan immediately bristled, drawing back with a low growl. 

"Hey, you give that up, you get out of here. And besides, there’s something better waiting for you on the outside." 

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion of this man only serving to grow. But he couldn't ignore his own curiosity or the opportunity to break free of this prison. 

He sighed raggedly and grabbed the back of the burlap sack, pulled it up and off of his face. His unwashed hair fell in greasy strips in front of his face, quickly irritating him. He was glad that he couldn't see himself; he imagined the pallid, sunken-eyed visage he might see and felt spikes of anger at the image of that weak, scared boy he’d once been. 

"Oh…" Bolger said softly, looking at his face. 

"What?" Jonathan snarled, baring his teeth at the man. 

"Nothing." The other man lowered his eyes. "Guess it was too much to hope they’d stop sending kids to this place." He pulled the sack from Jonathan’s hands and moved to the bed. Jonathan wandered away and watched as Bolger pulled a handful of fabric from his pocket and stuffed it into the sack and began positioning the pillows and covers so that it looked like Jonathan was fast asleep in bed. He had to admit, it didn't look too bad.

"Come on." 

Bolger pulled open the door and ushered Jonathan out. The air on his face gave him an uncomfortable sense of anxiety. But luckily, the hallways were deserted. Whatever commotion was going on further away was keeping the other guards sufficiently occupied. Bolger started away from the noise, down a quieter hallway. The inmates here mostly moaned and talked to themselves so security was usually lighter in this wing. As they walked, Jonathan threw furtive glances over his shoulder. 

"Don't worry," Bolger reassured. "They’re gonna be good and busy. Keep moving." 

He’d misunderstood the target of Jonathan’s concern. He didn't care either way if the guards came. But if they didn't then what he wanted was to grab his only friend in this place and flee with him in tow. It felt wrong to escape and leave Jervis behind. 

But he went along, following Bolger down twisting hallways, down into the sections of the asylum that were regularly closed off to the inmates. Bolger produced a key and let them into the dank musty basement. 

"Here’s what you do," he said and pointed. "Follow that hallway, deep down until you hit the dead end. It's an old service entrance that's been locked off but it will lead out into the parking lot. Get to the door and wait for my signal. I’ll be getting in position on the other side with my car. Once I knock, it's safe to come out and we get outta here." 

Jonathan listened carefully and nodded when the guard was done speaking. However, when he made to leave, Jonathan gripped his arm. "Wait. My friend, Mr. Tetch." 

Bolger gently shook him off. "There’s no time to get him too. If this goes off without a hitch, I promise we can make a plan that involves liberating the fearsome Mr. Tetch."

Jonathan gave him a long look. "You're a peculiar one, Mr. Bolger." 

He gave a wide grin. "You don't know how right you are." Then, "Get moving. I should be on the other side in fifteen minutes." 

He quickly departed and Jonathan went further down into the darkness. The silence was eerie and filled him with unease, a feeling he welcomed. Already, the asylum felt miles away, all while it loomed ominously over his head. He relished the tension and anxiety this breakout was drumming up. 

He eventually reached the dead end and waited, listening to his low breathing in the dark. Time stretched in the shadows and he let his thoughts wonder about Bolger. The only reason he’d help him was if he actually was part of the Scare Gang, the group of like minded madmen he’d collected from the corners of Gotham’s underworld. They were not many, maybe two dozen, but it was possible that Bolger hid his identity behind a mask like all of his followers did. But on the other hand, if he was lying, then this whole thing could end up being an elaborate trap. Not a pleasant outcome but neither was it devastating. Jonathan figured the worst he’d experience was a little public humiliation, maybe a beatdown from the guards, only to end the night dumped right back in the room he’d ‘escaped’ from. Whatever would come, he’d be ready. 

Minutes passed before he jerked upright, alerted by three sharp raps on the door. He reached for the door handle, grit his teeth, and shoved it outward. He expected to be met by a posse of guards, batons and tasers in hand and at the ready. 

Instead, there was a car running with its back door thrown open. 

"Get in!" Bolger hissed. 

Jonathan didn't need telling twice. He scurried forward, kicked the service door shut behind him, and shot into the car, pulling the door closed and settled low behind the driver’s seat. 

"Keep your head down," Bolger instructed and Jonathan pinned his eyes to the floor and hunched down low. His heart was pounding hard but he forced himself to stay still. He kept his ears alert and seemed to pinpoint the moment when they were past the asylum’s gates. He let a minute or two pass before he looked up, peering out the window at the passing scenery. All he saw were trees. He climbed up onto the backseat and lay down, willing to let them get wherever they were going without a fuss. He must have dozed off because when he next jerked awake, they were slowing to a stop. 

The car rolled and then was still so Jonathan sat up to view his surroundings. They had stopped in a cemetery. Rows and rows of graves stretched far in all directions but they seemed to be the only people around. Bolger shut off the car and there was silence all around. 

"See that tree up there?" he asked, nodding in the direction. Jonathan followed the direction of his gaze; there was a small hill overlooking the gravestones marked by a large tree. "Go there, you'll find something waiting for you." 

Jonathan's eyes narrowed for that sounded somewhat ominous. "If this is some kind of trap -" 

"Dude." Bolger rolled his eyes. "Just _go_." 

Jonathan hesitated a moment more before opening his car door and climbing out. He took two steps, realized Bolger wasn"t following, and looked over his shoulder. "You're not coming?" 

"In a minute. Just gotta change into something more comfortable." 

The man’s strangeness didn't seem to cease. It felt pointless to try and understand him so he turned around and started his way up the hill. It was dark all around and a half-moon hung in the sky, providing little illumination. Now that there was no one around and he had the illusion of solitude, it was not so bad to be without his mask, at least for this short time. The chilly night air felt pleasant on his skin after so many days locked in the stale, choking walls of Arkham. 

He crested the small hill and approached the tree. The leaves were turning orange and falling, about half of its branches were bare. He stepped over the fallen leaves, letting them crunch under his feet, as he made his way to the base of the tree. He slowly circled the trunk and there, behind the tree, hidden from view was a small bundle of clothes folded neatly on the ground. But more important was the scythe leaned against the tree’s trunk. His scythe. And a quick inspection revealed the clothes were his own Scarecrow costume, complete with his beloved mask. He touched the stitches in the leather reverently and eagerly snatched it up, along with taking hold of his scythe. Someone had taken the liberty of cleaning and sharpening the blade. It gleamed under the light of the moon and Jonathan felt the urge to swing it freely and with abandon. 

He moved around the tree, his gratefulness towards Bolger firmly elevated. He was prepared to thank the man but he was no longer where he’d left him. Instead, Jonathan faced a specter. 

The car’s driver side door was open but Bolger was nowhere in sight. Instead, a woman approached him through the fog. She was slim, dressed in a blue and white dress, with long dark hair. But most noticeable of all was the mask that obscured her face. This was not like the mask the members of his gang wore, all twisted and monstrous to inspire and embody as much fear as possible. This woman’s mask was chalk white and plain. Three nondescript holes for eyes and mouth and the barest of decoration, two slashes carved at the inside corner of both eyes to simulate eyelashes. 

Jonathan held his scythe loosely in one hand but he didn't brandish it against her. He simply tilted his head as she approached. "You aren’t one of mine, after all. Who - or what - are you?" 

"I am like you," she said, in a clear, feminine voice. "A monster conceived by the GCPD and birthed in the guts of Arkham, abandoned there, rotten and forgotten." 

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, interested. She’d closed the distance between them to about ten feet and stopped, leaned against someone’s gravestone.

"The GCPD destroyed my family, just like they did yours. And then to cover their tracks, I was locked in that place and left to the mercy of Huge Strange." Her tone was quietly bitter. 

"You're from Indian Hill," he realized, watching her. 

"One of many experiments," she said, spreading her arms in a mock dramatic fashion. 

He moved slowly toward her. "Is that your power then? To make yourself look like whoever you want?" 

She nodded. "Hugo Strange took my face. Sliced me up and made me his little monster. Made it so that I can take anyone’s face I needed as long as I’ve touched them." Her eyes flicked up towards him and though he couldn't see her face, he imagined she grinned. "I’ve touched _you_ , Jonathan Crane." 

She straightened up and Jonathan came to a stop as her image seemed to shimmer before him. Her body grew slimmer, her hair lightened a shade and seemed to shrink, sliding back up into her scalp. Her limbs stretched a bit and when she raised her hand, the fingers had grown bony and scarred. His eyes widened when she raised her white mask and he was suddenly looking at his own face. 

The doppelganger grinned wide, showing dingy teeth. "That's a delightful look on your face." 

He quickly recovered from his shock, schooling his face into a calmer mask. "So, you can look like anyone. Is that how you came to possess my personal effects?" 

"That's right," she answered and Jonathan felt a strange sensation hearing his own voice spoken back to him. "It's easy for me to get in and out of places. Probably why I'm the only Indian Hill escapee left kicking." 

"So why go to the trouble of breaking me out?" 

She tilted her head and her - his - hair fell across her face. "I hoped for your help, in turn." Her - his - voice went low and serious. "I waited for a long time, for the right moment and then I learned about you. The son of a brilliant doctor locked away and forgotten. I followed your escapades in the paper before Jerome Valeska was killed and…" She shrugged. "I liked what I saw." Her eyes captured his and he saw them soften. "I wear my mask to hide the monster I am. You wear yours to show the world the monster you are. I can respect that."

Jonathan listened to her closely. It did surprise him that she knew so much of his backstory. He was not like Jerome Valeska; notoriety and fame meant nothing to him. Still, it was oddly flattering to be singled out and chosen like this. He was not used to people paying attention to him. 

"What goal are you after?" he asked. "I'm not really interested in money heists or power struggles." 

"What does interest you, Jonathan?" 

"Chaos," he answered instantly, ignoring his irritation at her using his old name. "A kingdom fueled by terror, anarchy, and animalistic panic." He turned his eyes to the moon, suddenly wistful. "To reign in a place such as that would be true bliss," he said softly. 

"A big goal," she said with a nod. "What if I can offer you a smaller one? Revenge against those that ripped apart your family. Your father was killed by James Gordon. Because of his partner, Harvey Bullock, my mother was arrested and died in prison. Seems to me like you and me could give the pair of them a run for their money."

It wasn’t an unattractive proposal. Though his ambitions were lofty, he still retained his anger and bitterness towards James Gordon and he would relish the chance to settle the score between them. _For the sake of Father’s memory._ This woman had chosen wisely. 

He looked at her, at his face and asked, "What’s your name?" 

"Don't need one of those," she answered, shaking her head with a smile. "Not anymore. No name, no face, nobody."

"What did your mother call you?" 

That question stripped the smile from her face. He pulled the mask down low, retreating back into obscuration. "I - she - " She gave a shaky breath. "She called me Jane." 

"Jane," he repeated the single, nonthreatening syllable. "Just Jane?" 

"Jane, Jane, of many names!" she suddenly sang out and as she did, her body began to morph back into her previous female form. "Jane Doe, she who no one knows. Jane Cartwright, hidden, hidden, out of sight." She looked at him and again, he could hear the grin in her voice. "Jane Crane, so horribly insane." 

She certainly was an interesting breed of madwoman. Already, he was wondering if it was worth it to try and make her a part of his gang. She was smart, resourceful, and her power was not something that could be ignored. 

"I might consider joining forces with you, Jane," he said and he saw her eyes widen behind her mask. "But I’d want you to do something for me first." 

"This whole breakout not elaborate enough for you?" she asked sarcastically. 

He chuckled lowly. "Oh, it was. And what I ask next will be easy in comparison. Show me your face." 

Jane drew back suddenly, her shoulders hunching defensively. "No." 

"No?" he repeated. He stepped away from her but began a slow circuit around her, the point of his scythe dragging the ground behind him. "You steal my face, masquerade in it as you please, and you won't reveal your own. Where is the fairness in that?" 

"You want to see what they did to me that badly?" she challenged. 

"I want to see what manner of monster you are," he answered. 

She grumbled lightly, going still and Jonathan merely waited. After a few tense seconds, her hand rose to her face, she hooked the mask under her chin, and drew it back over and away from her face. The face that she revealed to Jonathan was not what he’d expected. There were no cuts, scars, burns, wounds, or missing flesh. There was only a young woman, pale-skinned but clean, with pink lips and dark eyes. She was a little older than him but definitely still in her twenties, as he was. Altogether, wholly unremarkable. 

But the look on her face suggested that she didn't seem to think so. She didn't look bad but she was shrinking away from him like a dark and diseased thing exposed to the light of day. It was obvious her mental perception of herself did not match with reality. Hell, maybe it didn't need to. 

So when he stepped forward and she reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his, he stated clearly, "How hideous." 

She blinked in confusion, her mouth opening slightly. Now, that was a more delightful expression. Not a look of fear but not too far off. 

"No wonder you wear the mask," he said, keeping his voice low. "If you walked without it, think of the terror you would inspire. You would be the most fearsome thing in all of Gotham, a scourge on this wretched city. Can you even imagine that?" 

She was initially confused at his words but at the end of it, she’d dropped her gaze in an attempt to hide the blush that spread across her cheeks. She quickly reached for her mask and pulled it back down over her face. "That's the last look you'll get, Jonathan." 

"And that's the last time you'll use that name." Now it was his turn to don his mask. Feeling the leather encase his head, hearing the drag of his own breath in his ears, made him feel bolstered and secure. Mask on and scythe in hand, he finally felt like himself, not some battered, diminished version. "I'm the Scarecrow once again," he said, delighting in the rough masking of his voice. 

"Welcome back," Jane said and the two masked maniacs faced off in the cemetery. 

"What now then?" Scarecrow questioned. 

"I have some business to see to," she said, suddenly matter-of-fact. "And I figure you might want to enjoy some time to yourself now that you're free. We can meet up in a week’s time and determine our next steps. Until then, take the car and get where you're going." 

Not a bad idea. Jonathan turned away, towards the tree, to collect the last of his costume. When he returned, she was holding up the keys and she passed them to him without ceremony. 

"Keep yourself lowkey," she instructed. "I don't need you getting arrested again before we get to our mission." 

He scoffed. "I guarantee that won't happen." He pocketed the keys then looked at her. "Jane." She looked up and extended his hand to her. "Thank you." 

She paused before she took hold of his hand and gave it a firm shake. "Don't worry on it. I expect you to pay back the favor." She dropped her hand back to her side and looked at him for a moment before she gave a small chuckle and turned away. "Take care of yourself, Scarecrow," she said simply and walked off, away from the car. 

Jonathan stood there in the dark, watching her disappear into the mist before he roused himself to movement. There was work to be done after all and only so many hours in the night to accomplish them.


End file.
